


The Fountain Affair

by astrospecial



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Case Fic, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:40:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24709234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrospecial/pseuds/astrospecial
Summary: A simple affair turns into something greater when THRUSH tests an experimental drug on the agents.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 6
Kudos: 70
Collections: Heat Fic Summer 2020





	The Fountain Affair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AMintJulep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMintJulep/gifts).



> Additional warnings in the end author's note!

It was supposed to be a simple mission. A low-level THRUSH agent, not even one with any particularly dastardly plans— no viruses to unleash, no deadly poisons, no money-stealing schemes. The poor man just had the misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, hear things not cleared for his ears.

And now U.N.C.L.E, the swirling vulture he was, was going to swoop in and feed on the metaphorical carrion. They had an unfortunate mishap on their last mission, and God knew Waverly would have his head if another target ended up dead.

The THRUSH agent had been stationed in New York for three months now, and they had kept constant surveillance over him and his habits. He and Illya had the privilege to pour through the pages upon pages of documents to see what would make him tick the fastest.

His picture: dark, a severe and long face with a tight-lipped mouth. He did not seem the sort of person who would be fun at parties, or bowling, or football games. A quiet sort of fella who’d rather be doing crosswords than anything social.

His habits: every day he went to work at the nearby gas station. Every day he returned and reported to THRUSH HQ— nothing new, yes sir, goodbye sir. He ate plain rice for dinner, sometimes with milk. When he had washed the dishes, he put on his leather jacket and went to a certain club in a certain alleyway— a club that Napoleon wished he hadn’t known by name.

“Ah,” Illya said, his voice coming from beside him alongside a minty exhale. He was rather obsessed with dental hygiene. Anytime he could brush his teeth, he would. Napoleon preferred gum. “This is our point of entry.”

“Phrasing,” Napoleon murmured dejectedly. Illya glared at him, either missing or ignoring the despair in his voice.

“You know what I mean. _This_ —“ here he tapped the club’s name with his pen— “is where we trap our man. At times these persuasions make our job too easy, don’t you think?”

“Yes, of course,” he said, and Illya’s voice droned into the background of machinery because all he could think of was the word _surveillance._ The dates were all there on the first page, and the times he visited the club played through his head like a Hitchcock movie— how he hated those. First weekend of June: he and a blonde college student had stumbled into a taxi together, could barely keep their hands to themselves as they drove the long way to the guy’s apartment. Second weekend: he’d blown a short guy in one of the club’s restrooms, had left feeling dazed and satisfied even though he was hard in his pants. Third weekend: a man with pale skin gave him a handie in one of the club’s booths as he choked on his margarita. And so forth, and so forth. Jesus, they had to have seen him, right? They couldn’t have missed him, even with his hat and scarf and stupid sunglasses in the night. God, he might have even met the THRUSH agent, or worse— a horrible vision of reading the same detached words in _his own file_ made him want to bury his head in his hands. Then he wanted to get piss-drunk.

“—of course, even if he recognizes you as one of us, that won’t be of any importance. As long as you blend in with the local scene…” Illya’s voice trailed off. “Napoleon?”

He couldn’t avoid it. With a heavy sigh, he raised his head. Illya was standing now, probably to pace while he rambled. “Yes, partner?”

“Were you listening to anything I said?”

“Of course, of course.” Napoleon grabbed the documents and flipped through them. His name _couldn’t_ be in there, and if it was...thankfully, it didn’t appear to be amongst the twenty or so pages, but he’d have to comb through them later to be sure. One never knew when people decided to get cheeky and slip in a secret message. In this case, blackmail.

“Then you are aware that you will be going to the club?”

Napoleon’s world hit his feet. He was aware that his eyes were bugging and his chin was at his chest, but the last thing on his mind was schooling his expression to something more handsome. There must have been a code in the dossier, something Illya must have been debriefed on before: _he goes to bed at twenty-one thirty-five_ was actually _Napoleon’s a raging queer— any ideas on how to humiliate him?_ Illya raised an eyebrow, and Napoleon managed to choke out an eloquent “Me?”

“Who else is in the room? Is Waverly hiding underneath the table?”

He laughed, even though a man staring death in the face shouldn’t find humor in anything. “What I mean to say is, you...would fit in more, wouldn’t you?” A vague gesture to Illya’s lithe body. As soon as he had said it, he realized with a wince he had outed his preferences. “Not that you’re, or anything—“

Illya raised a hand. “Normally, this would be my area. I have an easier time with men than you with…” he grimaced. “...women. But now I doubt that you even read the dossier. Page twelve.”

When Illya said things like that, Napoleon's foolish heart forgot all of its previous lessons and began to _hope_ again. When it came to Illya, hope was the opposite of control; hope made him want to slam him down on the desk and kiss him senseless, made his face too honest, made him want impossible things. He flipped to page twelve and read.

Napoleon looked up to see Illya smiling at him. Jesus, it was like looking at the sun. He could have given him some warning. 

“See?” Illya turned away, a habit Napoleon knew was to hide his growing grin. “He doesn’t like blondes.”

—

The club’s name was the Fountain. Inside, there was nothing to speak for _why_ that was its name; it looked like any seedy bar across America, dark green and brown and with seats of fraying faux leather and questionable stains. Not to mention the smell, heavy with alcohol and sweat. Sometimes Napoleon thought he could smell desperation, too.

One time he had been here before closing, and no one but he and the bartender remained. He asked why the bar was named that way, and where’s the fountain? Apparently, there used to be a fountain outside, way back when New York City wasn’t really a city, but it was taken out and replaced with a fire hydrant.

All of that aside, Napoleon felt a familial fondness for this place.

It wasn't that he hadn’t lied here. His name, his occupation, how close his place was to the club— he hadn’t been honest. But those were details and they didn’t matter when he could walk into a room and think _I don’t have to hide._ There were no averting gazes, no half murmured apologies at a brush of skin. Amongst the denizens of the Fountain, Napoleon could simply exist.

And now he was a stranger. He found himself unsure how to act because he was here as Napoleon of Section II, straighter and more American than apple pie, playing the character of Jack. Yes, he was supposed to flirt and take the target David back to his apartment, where Illya waited in the wings. But when he flirted here late into Saturday evenings and early Sunday mornings, it was of his own accord, and any pleasure he found was for himself, not the U.N.C.L.E. waiting for a report on every charm and flourish. Acting upon acting, characters over characters. 

He sidled up to the bar and took a hesitant seat. This was his first time here, and he glanced warily around, waiting, watching. 

The bartender approached him, no sign of recognition on his face. “What can I get ‘cha?”

“A gin and tonic, please.” He smiled, pushed up his fashionable tortoise-shell glasses. They made him look weaker, younger. They were his only line of defense— that and the slight softness in his voice, the old-school sweater. Jack got home from work every day and opened up the latest novel. No taste for Shakespeare, loved Salinger. “Um, this is, you know—“

The bartender’s mouth spread into an indulgent smile. “Your first time here?”

“Yes.”

“If you mean it’s where we come together to have a bit of fun, you’re right. Lemme grab your gin and tonic quick.”

Napoleon drummed his fingers twice against the table, checked his watch. Half-past ten already. His target should have already washed the dishes and should arrive any second.

The bartender sat the drink down in front of him, and Napoleon took a nervous little sip.

“You don’t come to places like this often, huh.”

He shook his head. 

“Well, you have any questions, let me know. You’re pretty handsome— smile some more and I’m sure you’ll get a lot more drinks this evening.”

“Thank you,” he said, as above the laughter the door slammed shut. Napoleon turned and saw him. 

Napoleon wasn’t sure what he had been expecting— a rush, a quick intake of breath, heart palpitations— but he was more than pleased when the image of David inspired none of that in him. No, he thought grimly, it was not like seeing Illya. But at least he had some experience for Jack to draw from; quickly he turned back to the bartender, who was looking at him with amusement.

“That’s one of many Davids. He comes by here often. Want me to introduce you?”

“If you would,” he said. Doing his work for him.

A minute or so later, in which Napoleon did nothing more than run his fingers along the glass rim, the bartender returned. On Napoleon’s side of the bar was David, who had a tight little smile that was not entirely at ease with itself.

“David,” said the target, holding out his hand to shake, “though I think you already know my name.”

Napoleon considered his outstretched hand, then gently shook it, lingering a little too long. A handshake like that would make Illya murder him. “Jack. Nice to meet you.”

“Your usual again, David?”

“Sure.” David exchanged the can of beer for cash, cracked it open. “I don’t want to be too forward, but…do you want to take this to a table?”

Napoleon started, glancing at the bartender. He had already gone to the far end to help someone else. Looking back at David, he saw nothing but assurance in his deep eyes. To think that someone so benign was a member of THRUSH. 

“I’d love to,” he finally said. “I’m not used to this sorta thing.”

“I can tell.” David led him by the elbow to a free booth, and they squeezed in, knees knocked together and arms pressed close.

“So. Tell me, Jack— what brings you to the Fountain?”

“Same as anyone else, really. Where else am I supposed to meet men?”

“What I mean to say is I’ve never seen you here before.”

“There must be a lotta Jacks.”

“There are. But none as handsome as you.”

Napoleon forced a blush by imagining the last time he sat at one of the bar’s tables, eyes closed and a stranger’s hands in his pants. “I’m not used to that. Not from men.”

“Spend enough time here and that’ll be fixed quick.”

“You’re handsome too.” 

David smiled wanly. “What do you do, Jack? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Napoleon took a dainty sip of his gin and tonic, made a face like it was too strong for him. He cleared his throat. “I’m a writer.”

“Really? Your last name doesn’t happen to Kerouac, does it?”

Napoleon didn’t have to fake laughter this time. He had expected a moody man, had expected to suffer through awkward conversation until he buckled up the urge to put a hand on his thigh. He always had fun with THRUSH agents, at least the ones who wanted to screw him. Nothing ever came of it, and nothing would come of this. Sometimes he wished Illya would realize that he could have some fun as well. “Sadly, no. I’m working on a short story collection about the lives of different people in New York. Not sure if I’ll be able to get it published, but one of the stories is about men like us.” That was protocol, but here in this familiar place in an unfamiliar get up, he had to add, “the main character’s got this unrequited love, y’see.”

“Huh.” David pursed his lips. “This is only research then?”

“This isn’t my scene, usually, but— I figured I’d try it.”

“And what do you think?”

“The company’s good.” Napoleon looked glumly at his gin and tonic. It tasted fine enough, but he couldn’t afford to drink. “Like I’ve said, I haven’t done this before. What happens now?”

“Well, whatever you want.” David threw an arm around his shoulder, jovial. “My apartment isn’t too far from here.”

He knew. “I suppose it could be good research. But we have only just met.”

“Then how about a kiss first? See how you like it.”

They had briefed him on this like he was a normal man— had talked him through the particulars of kissing men as if he hadn’t done it every weekend. He couldn’t say no. Napoleon nodded shyly, watched as David took one last swig of his can before kissing him full on the mouth. His lips were warm and tasted of cheap beer, and as his tongue licked into him, Napoleon felt his whole body sigh with it. A little fun—

Understanding clicked into Napoleon’s head as he swallowed _something,_ bitter in his mouth and burning on the way down. He pulled back, moved to wretch, but it was like he was moving in slow motion, and his hands could barely move David an inch. Nor could they grab his hidden pistol, nor could they scrabble and claw themselves away from him and his mouth. David’s hand was in his hair, and he closed his eyes as the substance hit his stomach. Finally, David let him go, and when he tried to stand, his legs gave out. 

David caught him, his voice fuzzy and soft in his ear. The pulse of music and the chattering of people all came from far away. He was drowning in the noise. This was supposed to be simple; they hadn’t briefed him for this.

“Did you have too much to drink, Napoleon?”

“‘S not my name,” Napoleon slurred into his shoulder, “‘n you know...I haven’t drunk anything…”

There was a _pat-pat_ on his shoulder. The floor moved away from him, then the bar and the bartender, then the Fountain’s door, then the laughter and the music. Then Napoleon blacked out.

—

He hadn’t known he had come to when he did. All he could see was darkness. The air was thin inside the sack, and he flexed his hands against the cuffs at his wrists, rolled his ankles on their own bonds. His chest was cold, his legs bare aside from boxers. Why had he stripped him? Unless this had nothing to do with THRUSH.

Napoleon let himself feel that bright bolt of fear inside his chest, let it pulsate for one second. Then he took as deep of a breath as he could inside the sack, and started running his fingers along his cuffs.

Suddenly there was light blooming across his eyes. He grimaced and turned away, just as a slap glanced across his cheek.

“Up and at ‘em, Jack. Or should I say Henry, or Alfred, or Sam?”

He blinked away the pain, tried to focus on the blurry man before him. It was David, and they appeared to be in his apartment. There was a gun in his left hand— not pointed at him— but Napoleon couldn’t do anything while he was cuffed, except tip the chair over and get shot. The fact that David knew the names he used at the Fountain was not important, not to Solo of Section II, who had to wait with a madman and a gun and had never been to the Fountain before tonight.

“Napoleon Solo will do just fine.” 

David was still blurred, and now that he had adjusted to his surroundings, he could tell he was feeling _off._ His skin felt wound to his body, tight and sweaty, and he shifted slightly in his seat.

“Of course. You don’t even know who I am, do you?”

“Afraid not,” Napoleon said lowly, like one might to a horse. Or how one might talk to someone in a lonely booth before they escaped to the bathroom. “Is David of THRUSH not right?”

David snorted. “You types are all the same. Only interested when you have something to gain— U.N.C.L.E. attracts the worst the world has to offer.” In a fit, David kicked a magazine on the floor and sent it skittering to the wall. “You’ve tracked me for months. Months! And for what?”

“Any THRUSH anywhere isn’t good, David.” The excuse sounded weak even to him. Napoleon coughed, and his stomach formed a churning pit. Whatever this drug was, the aftereffects were potent. “Is this your own case of unrequited love?”

“Of course not. THRUSH is the only love I need.” David considered him for a moment. “But you aren’t ugly, and now that it’s kicking in— you’ll see. That first drug was just the prelude.”

“And this is?” he choked out, as a spasm made him double over. His skin burned, his throat felt like sandpaper, and David—

David was looking one hundred percent more attractive. Napoleon couldn’t help the confused noise that left his mouth, staring at him. He was no longer average; now he possessed some indefinable quality that made Napoleon harder than he had ever been before in his life. 

He felt David’s eyes on his dick, and although it was torture for mind and body, he bucked his hips toward his gaze.

“Huh,” said David, “I didn’t think the prototype would work.”

That was when Napoleon saw Illya. His clothes hugged his body, black turtleneck and pants shaping to the contour of his muscles. He wanted to tear them off. “Illya,” he said in a gasp, and David turned.

“Hands up!” His voice was a beacon. Napoleon wanted to hear him speak forever, rambling as he ran his fingers along his stomach. The chair fell and he hit the ground.

“Napoleon?” Illya’s brows furrowed, and Napoleon saw how his fingers clenched around the gun and dipped slightly lower, could do nothing as David’s leg kicked and Illya fell to the ground with a shout. The apartment door slammed behind him.

Illya cursed, his fist crumpling the kicked magazine as he stood. His ass looked wonderful in black. Napoleon wished he hadn’t thought about it, but he did, and he was still painfully hard. 

“Go after him,” he said, even though the mere idea was painful. “I’ll be fine here.” 

Illya worked his ankle cuffs open, then moved to his wrists. His skin burned where he touched him and he couldn’t help the gasp.

“What happened?”

“Some sort of— ah— drug.” Once the binds were undone, he collapsed to the ground, weak. His hand moved on its own to grasp his cock through his briefs. Even though Illya was watching him, even though this was something he should have never seen, it was too much. If he didn’t get off right now, he was going to die. A small part of him told him not to take his dick out, to just beat off in his underpants like a teenager, and later he would thank God he listened. “This is— I have to—”

Illya colored a lovely red. He wondered if the shade bloomed across his chest. “A drug that makes you incredibly aroused?” His hand touched Napoleon’s forehead, and he leaned into it, groaning. Illya pulled back like he touched a hot pan. “I’ll search the apartment...and call HQ.”

Despite everything, the pressure and burning heat in his stomach was building, building, and—

“Illya,” he called out, halfway between a moan and a sob. Why hadn’t he came? His arm had begun to hurt, not to mention he had started stroking himself while he was painfully dry. “I need—”

You. The word was on his lips, but he bit down hard enough to draw blood. Illya kneeled beside him, his face a mix of some emotion. 

“Don’t hate me for this,” Illya said, and his hand reached down and touched him through his briefs, just a light brush, and Napoleon came gasping into Illya’s shoulder. His hand was sticky with his release, and now that there wasn’t a fire burning inside him, he could barely take his hand out of his underwear.

“I suppose that did the trick,” Napoleon said, once he was feeling vaguely human. He stumbled his way to a tissue box and wiped off his hands. The faucet ran behind him. Looking at the crumpled tissue, he counted to three. One: Illya helping him was no different than him bandaging a wound or applying ointment to a burn (although those, too, made Napoleon slightly off-kilter). Two: It wasn’t his choice. They had no other options. And three:

“Normally, I’m not so quick a shot.” 

Illya snorted and tossed his pants and shirt at him. “I have not seen proof to the contrary. This will be an interesting report, at the very least.”

Napoleon dressed. Illya’s slightly teasing tone was no different than it had been this morning (though the circumstances made him remember the time they had gotten drunk in Napoleon’s apartment, and it and the accent had gotten stronger and sexier), but a tight ball had worked its way into his throat, and he didn’t know what to say or do to break free of its awkwardness. 

“Not so low level after all,” Napoleon said, because what else was there to say? “He said this was only a prototype.”

“It seems Waverly was right assigning this mission to us.” 

“I wish he hadn’t been.”

Illya laid a hand on his shoulder. It was nothing more than a touch, and they touched each other all the time, but it made his nerves buzz electric. “We’ll get through it together. Now, go search for any documents regarding this ‘love’ drug.”

—

There wasn’t much in the apartment but an address in the French countryside. Records showed the country home belonged to a German scientist by the name of Dr. Mortimer Small, who had fled the Nazis and found a place in THRUSH. The likely source of the mysterious drug, he and Illya were tasked with infiltrating the home.

As always, misfortune befell them as soon as possible. They had been tailed from the airport, watched on the train, and followed to the modest bed-and-breakfast (which had been bugged and the bathroom trapped with poisonous gas— at least they got the right room, Napoleon had quipped to a grim-faced Illya, instead of killing some granny). And when they snuck out shortly after midnight to sneak into the house, Napoleon wasn’t even surprised when the tranq dart hit his back and he heard Illya groan over his headpiece.

The next thing he knew, he was blinking awake. All he could see was a plain wall, and when he tried to look around, he found he couldn’t. He tried to force the paralyzing sluggishness out of his body, but that was impossible too. 

Somehow he forced a groan out of his body. The feeling was coming back painfully slow; his back ached, and he realized that they had him lying on the floor. 

“Napoleon!” Illya’s voice came from somewhere close. “Thank God! I thought you were dead!”

Napoleon licked his lips. His voice came out slurred. “You okay?”

“Tied to a chair. They only knocked me out. Whereas you…”

“Can’t move at all.” Napoleon tried to sit. His limbs still felt like boulders. “I’m always the unlucky one.”

A door opened and shut quietly. The soft footsteps of one— no, two— people made Illya’s sudden silence concerning. He hadn’t heard a struggle, but he couldn’t _see_ Illya, which meant THRUSH could do whatever the hell it wanted with him. 

Finally, he heard Illya’s voice. “David Smith of THRUSH and Dr. Mortimer Small, I presume?”

An old man’s voice, gravelly with age, responded. “You would be correct. It is wonderful to meet U.N.C.L.E.’s top agents. Especially when both of you are so defenseless!”

Napoleon struggled to a seated position, even though it took almost all of his energy. His body screamed with pain whenever he moved an inch. He still couldn’t do a damn thing, even though Dr. Small was a frail, easily-toppled old man, David had a weak hold on his gun, and they had set their weapons stored on top of a desk with a lamp and home camera. The room itself was crowded; a private study with heavy bookshelves around and antique furniture. Any of it would have been wonderful for an escape plan if he could _move_.

Illya’s chair was slightly in front of him, where Illya couldn’t look at him without craning his neck. His ankles and wrists were bound with rope, and knowing Illya, he had already rubbed the skin red. Nothing he could do either.

“You should let us go,” Napoleon said, thanking everything that the slur had mostly left him. “Things’ll be more pleasant for everyone.”

“Things are going to be more pleasant for _you_ soon enough,” David responded, and pulled out a small vial of liquid from a vial rack on the desk. “Remember this?”

“How could I forget?”

David smiled. “Your luck has run out, Solo. Dr. Small perfected it last night. You two get to be the very first lab rats of _Little Death._ ”

Dr. Small took the vial from David and held it to the desk lamp, examining it one last time. “Tasteless. Odorless. Colorless. Traceless. The _Little Death_ will be the number one drug for assassinations everywhere.” 

“Or,” David said, grinning wildly and stepping to the video recorder on the desk, “blackmail. You can either let the drug’s effects shut down your body, or you can survive on video.” He tapped the camera. “And you will do what THRUSH says.”

Illya’s cringe was evident in his voice. “Death by arousal…what a way to go.”

“What’ll be, agents? Life or death?”

Illya couldn’t look at him from his position, and Napoleon wished he could see his face instead of the back of his head.

“We’ll die if we don’t,” he said.

“I do like living.”

“Good choice.” David came to Napoleon first, held his jaw open, and forced him to swallow half of the vial’s contents. The drug’s effects were swift. His blood rushed to his cock and his body had its own will, seemed alive and bristling. Napoleon began to shake, his eyes drawn to Illya, who was undergoing the same treatment. The nape of his neck was slightly tanned from a mission in Argentina. He wanted to suck purple bruises and bites onto it like he was a teenager fumbling around in the backseat of his car. That was before U.N.C.L.E., before Illya, and now with one of THRUSH’s concoctions coursing through him, he could hardly imagine a time ever existing where he didn’t want to ravish him.

Then David untied Illya’s bonds. Illya fell to the floor. A beep came from somewhere in the room, and Napoleon found the will to stand.

He swayed toward him, and if Napoleon had a sound mind, he would have been ashamed by how desperate he was. But he couldn’t, not when Illya was busy loosening his shirt collar and the top buttons popped open and his skin was slick with sweat. His suit jacket lay discarded next to him. Napoleon had lost his somewhere between standing and reaching Illya.

Illya’s eyes met his, and the look on his face, open-mouthed desire and want, consumed him. He tackled Illya to the floor, barely registering the laughter from across the room, and kissed him. Illya grasped his tie, pulled him deeper into the kiss. Every place that touched him jolted, and he couldn’t get enough. He fumbled with Illya’s belt, worked it open and pulled out his cock.

Illya broke away from their kiss with a gasp and a moan. A rock from Napoleon’s hips made Illya’s teeth graze his ear, and Napoleon shivered.

“Be smart about this,” Illya whispered. His sentence devolved into a rough pant when Napoleon twisted his hand just so. “You can move, right? You—“ the sentence broke off as he pressed a kiss to Napoleon’s neck— “first.”

Napoleon removed his hand, chastised, though not exactly sure why. But if Illya wanted to get him off first, if his efforts at the considerate lover failed, then who was he to say no? He missed the way Illya felt in his hand, how he careened forward and panted softly near him, but it was soon forgotten when Illya bent and took him in his mouth. The position looked awkward, and Napoleon wished he had the willpower to make it easier for him, but instead his hips bucked involuntarily, chasing the slick warmth of his mouth. Illya pulled off, glared, before sucking him down again.

And oh, wasn’t that a sight, his hand fisted in Illya’s hair while his lips were stretched around his cock. Napoleon had dreamed about this, had brought himself off while thinking of how he would look, but reality was better than any fantasy. The way Illya’s cheeks outlined his cock, how his hand snaked into his pants...he felt like he would burn up any second. Any longer and he might actually die. 

A moment later and he was blinking up at the ceiling once more, post-orgasm relaxation ready to set in. But Illya was still sucking him off, his hand pressed hard into Napoleon’s thighs. Their eyes met; Illya tapped him twice.

Illya pulled off his cock, and now that Napoleon _did_ have a (reasonably) sound mind, he was embarrassed by the obscene noise it made. But he didn’t have time to worry about that or how he’d look on camera half-dressed, charging at their captors— but if the twin looks of horrified shock on Dr. Small and David’s faces were any indication, it was not good. He ran toward David and grappled for the gun before he had a chance to fire. The motion knocked David into the wall and the gun out of his hand. Still, too late: Napoleon flinched and tightened his hold on David as it misfired somewhere across the room. A clipped groan came after, and he turned. It couldn’t be Illya, but…

Dr. Small was on the floor, clutching his reddening chest. The gun had landed near Illya’s chair. Napoleon turned back to see David’s elbow fly towards him. It collided with his face, the pain making him stagger back against the desk. David darted past him. He was about to follow, but then his eyes landed on Illya: his hands were clutched at his chest, his breath short and wheezing, and Napoleon remembered the threat of death that had started everything. No matter what he did, it would be pointless if Illya couldn’t fly back to New York with him.

David faced Napoleon, and the look he must have seen made him laugh. “Don’t tell me...unrequited love? You idiot! You’ve damned him _and_ you’ve damned yourself.” David moved to turn, and that was when the gun fired again. David took a few futile steps toward the desk, toward Napoleon, before crumpling. 

Illya dropped the gun to a floor with a shaky sigh, and once the amazement left Napoleon, he rushed forward to him. 

A sober Napoleon was not ready to be so close to him. Illya’s dick was achingly hard, flushed against his white dress shirt. Those lovely fingers that Napoleon had watched for hours fiddling with a gun or writing reports were pumping his cock frantically, the other hand firmly clenching the fabric of his discarded suit coat.

Napoleon lowered himself to the ground, entranced, mortified because there was no drug or alcohol to blame for his desire. The camera was still running. A drug was explainable, but how hard his cock was now? 

“Napoleon,” Illya choked out, “you can’t leave me like this. That was a trick, but—“

“I hope you won’t hate me, too,” he said softly, wanting to stare at him forever. Then he rubbed his fingers over one of Illya’s nipples through the fabric, felt him jerk forward into his hand. He moved, and although the angle was odd and would likely give him a crick in his neck, he was determined: he took Illya’s nipple in his mouth through his shirt, sucked hard and tasted laundry detergent. Even after the drug wore off, even after Illya slid his clothes back on and ran a hand through his hair, he wanted something to last if only for a few minutes more. He wanted Illya to feel the rawness there, feel a fraction of the arousal Napoleon did from looking at him. He wondered if the sloppy way Illya was groaning and mouthing against his neck was a kiss.

Napoleon wrapped his hand around Illya’s and tried to keep up with his fast pace. He wanted to kiss him, so he pulled away from his wet shirt and did. Illya kissed like a starving man, like Napoleon was all he had ever wanted, all he needed. 

He had to remind himself it was just the drug.

Illya’s fingers clenched across his back, body tightening, and warmth coated Napoleon’s hand. He stroked him through his orgasm, not wanting to let go, knowing this would be the last time he ever got to touch him, knowing that everyone else was ruined now. Illya squirmed backward, his stomach heaving and his thighs’ pale skin shaking.

Napoleon wiped his chin and stared at the mess on his hand.

Illya, who had found a comfortable place to collapse on the floor, scowled. “Don’t you dare wipe that on your clothes.”

“I’m not _that_ uncivilized,” he said (although he had been thinking of licking it off), and wiped it on the carpet. Illya scoffed, but it gave way to a deep sigh.

“I’m not sure if that was the worst or best orgasm of my life.”

“It’s rude to insult someone who just took such good care of you. I _could_ have just let you die.” Napoleon walked to the camera, tucking himself into his pants and adjusting as he did so, and clicked it off. What would Waverly see in the video, he wondered, what sort of hidden things would show on Napoleon’s face while he was consumed in pleasure? “I’m not looking forward to giving this report. I have a feeling it was a trap all along.”   
  


“Your sense of deduction is remarkable, Mr. Solo.”

His eyes drifted to the vial rack of distilled arousal, the little death that almost became death itself. Then, as he looked at the two bodies on the floor, he became aware of Illya’s presence behind him— his shadow, his partner— and picked up the vial.

“What are you planning to do with that?”

“Save it for a rainy day.” When he turned around, Illya was too close. The sticky residue on the hand holding the vial seemed to grow hotter under his scrutiny. “I’m not sure,” he said, and licked his dry lips, “we should give this sample to U.N.C.L.E.” 

Illya took the sample from Napoleon and placed it in his coat pocket. He nodded, and Napoleon gathered the rest of the samples in the rack and handed them Illya. 

Illya patted his pocket. “All the samples were destroyed— he used the last vial on us.” Then he opened a desk drawer and pulled out a manilla folder. After flipping through it for a moment, he tossed it on the vial rack. “These were burned by Dr. Small during the gunfight when he realized there was no hope. If he couldn’t produce their drug, THRUSH would never have it at all. And the video…”

“Never existed. Unless you’d rather keep it?”

“You may have more sunny days than me, but I still have no need for a smut film. Get rid of it.”

“As he commands.” He gathered the camera and shoved it in his pants pocket. They went through the necessary details; there were a few documents on the substance, which Illya pocketed, but nothing that needed to be immediately destroyed. Some agent below them would visit this home next, deal with the bodies at their feet. Napoleon finished searching the room first, and after getting his gun in order, checked his watch. One AM in France was seven PM in New York…

Both of them spoke at the same time. Napoleon waved for Illya to speak.

“David mentioned unrequited love.”

“Ah. So he did.”

“Is it?”

Napoleon looked at the door. Illya’s face pre-rejection would make a fine torture method. “I believe so.”

“You should at least _ask.”_

He hoped Illya wasn’t doing this to shame him. If it was a cruel joke, he’d never be the same. “I’d love to take you out for dinner.”

“Hmm. Where would we dine? No restaurants are open at this time, you’re aware.”

There was that sly look in his eyes, and Napoleon couldn’t help but grin and step closer. “My place?”

When Illya kissed him, soft and painfully slow and not near enough of what Napoleon needed, he couldn’t help but grip Illya’s shoulders like he was afraid he’d bolt. Illya pulled back, smiling. “Of course. Although I know you can’t cook.”

“Isn’t that the idea?”

**Author's Note:**

> Additional warnings: the dubcon comes from the fact that Illya and Napoleon are drugged (with the sex pollen) without consent, although they both enjoy it. They are also recorded and watched nonconsensually. Towards the beginning of the fic, Napoleon is worried about being possibly raped by a THRUSH agent.  
> The referenced homophobia is typical of the 1960s.
> 
> \--  
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> Thanks so much for reading! The title comes from The Smiths song "Reel Around the Fountain." 
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